Mistaken Enemy: A Zach Miller Thriller (Book 1) (The Zach Miller Thrillers) by Nehamen Dennis A

Author:Nehamen, Dennis A [Nehamen, Dennis A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Golden Poppy Publications
Published: 2013-12-30T23:00:00+00:00

23

YOU’RE A JEW, YOU SCHMUCK

I COULDN’T WAIT TO unload the potentially devastating information I had found in Amir’s safe, material I had all but forgotten while rotting in the Palestinian jail. I anticipated being drowned in gratefulness and quickly released. The Israelis had a different agenda. When I brought up to my new hosts what I had discovered, they were sufficiently intrigued to smirk at me. Then, they left me in confinement for two days before talking with me again.

The Israelis were big on interrogations, far more sophisticated than the Palestinians in terms of gathering data. Their approach was to stone the mind as opposed to the body. While at first I was relieved I was not being beaten, in due time, I began to wish I were; the mental anguish was far more distressing than the physical abuse I’d undergone with my prior captives.

After I had been softened up with days of isolation in darkness, without sound, smell, or touch, and food so bland that what sense of taste I had left was decimated by another ten percent with each meal, I met my first interrogator. He expressed his disappointment in me. How could a nice Jewish boy with a name like Zach turn into an anti-Semite? So appalled, he assured me, I’d most definitely have a fresh point of view when he finished.

I was beginning to think that I was Jewish. The Palestinians were convinced of it, the Israelis knew it to be a fact, even Bahlya had inquired about it. What a hack I was.

“Please, this is important,” I voiced in an attempt to let the fellow know what I had learned in Amir’s safe. “They’re going to kill millions of Israelis and Americans.”

“Miller, here are the ground rules. I ask questions and you answer. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.”

This drill sergeant guy, not much beyond my age, was named Lt. Col. Mordachai. His given name, by the way, was Guy, which I heard occasionally when he and a fellow officer conversed outside my cell; he was quite a guy. Probably owing to his youth, he was devout in conducting his work, proceeding with tenacity and durability I found remarkable. He hated wasting a moment he might otherwise devote to badgering or frightening me.

“Today, we cut all the bullshit, okay? I level with you and you with me.”

“That’s what I want. I’m trying to tell you…”

“Remember the rules? Shut the fuck up and listen.”

Torment I had become accustomed to through my earlier imprisonment. But it was Mordachai who finally lowered the boom, allowing all the pictures on the open windows of the slot machine to show identical, a jackpot tumbling the mystery and madness of my life in intelligible order.

Mordachai was a tall, very dark-skinned man with wavy thick black hair, not outstanding on its own. But it was his face that distinguished him, a mug never to be forgotten; and, I might add, one any common thug would have the good sense not to choose. The

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